


37D

by recoveringrabbit



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 14:08:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3695189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recoveringrabbit/pseuds/recoveringrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A "strangers on a delayed plane" AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	37D

 “Ladies and gentlemen.”  A pleasant voice – though decidedly less pleasant than it had been forty-five minutes ago – crackles over the intercom.  “This is your pilot speaking with your promised update.  Unfortunately, they’re still diagnosing the problem and so we still can’t give you an estimated take-off time.  We’ll let you know as soon as we do.  In the meantime, please stay in your seats. We thank you for your patience.”

The pilot spoke too soon.  A collective groan goes up from the entire plane, followed by the _bing_ , _bing, bing_ of a dozen call lights.  The flight attendants hurry up and down the aisles reassuring where they can, but there is no balm for the situation.  The passengers had waited patiently for the first fifteen minutes, less so for the next twenty, but now it is going on forty-five minutes they have been sitting on the tarmac with no end in sight. The DirecTV trial has run out. The sun is beating through the windows. The air is growing at once frigid and stuffy, and tempers are flaring.  Behind him, Fitz hears discontented whimpers turn into a high-pitched wail that go on and on and pierce like a siren.  He groans, craning his neck around.  He hadn’t known there was a baby on this flight.  That is just _perfect._

The woman on the aisle fans herself with the emergency information card, creating a gust of wind strong enough to ruffle his hair even though he is two seats away.  “If they don’t let us out soon we’re all going to suffocate.”

He turns to the window, too irritated by the air and the complete inaccuracy of the statement to respond. It _is_ getting hot in here, but of course they aren’t going to suffocate. For one thing, re-oxygenated and cleaned air is being circulated through the cabin every two to three minutes. For another, they’re still on the ground, for pete’s sake, the engines were-

“Actually, ma’am, the engines are drawing in fresh air all the time, so you’re breathing almost the same air you would outside. If anything, it’s cleaner and cooler in here.”

He snaps his head around and can’t quite keep himself from gawping at the girl in the middle seat, who has just taken the words right out of his mind.  When she sat down with a pleasant smile he had summed her up: young, pretty, nice eyes, better than average fashion sense, thankfully small and quiet and so unlikely to bother him on the long flight.  None of that matches with “someone who knows about airplane filtration systems” and it kind of throws him for a loop.  Feeling his eyes on her, she turns uncertainly and explains further. “It comes from the compressors-”

“-and is drawn through a filtration and cooling system, I know,” he says, having recently designed a better version of the system for NASA.  “How do _you_ know that?”

She brushes her brown hair over her shoulders and doesn’t quite meet his eyes.  “Um, it’s kind of classified, but I was doing research on airborne viruses and the possibility of introducing an antidote into the cleaning process. Like a water filter, only not.”

He hears “classified” and mentally translates – Ministry of Defense, or Department of Defense, or an extremely tight-lipped member of the private sector.  Eyeing her with a new respect, he suddenly notices that the paperback he had assumed was a novel is actually titled Annual Review of Biochemistry _._ This girl is _smart_ , smart _and_ beautiful, and he feels his tongue suddenly fold in on itself.  She is looking at him as if she expects him to respond, but he can’t think of anything clever enough to say.  “And you?” she asks finally, both eyebrows rising to a delicate arch.

“My job,” he manages to stammer, “I work with them. On rockets.”  

He wants to smack himself for how stupid that sounds, but her face lights up and she puts the bit of paper she’s been playing with into the journal to mark her spot.  Pleasant, he thought her smile before?  It is dazzling, it is blinding, the strength of it almost knocks him back against the window. “The mechanics or design or-”

“Some of everything, really,” he says, “but primarily avionics and aerodynamics.  It’s a lot of maths.”

“My specialty is chemical biology and the maths is my least favourite part, because I can’t do most of it in my head. I’d rather get in and test something.”

“Me too.”  He laughs a little and stretches out his hands.  “Only rockets are a bit too big to just build, so it all has to be on the computer.  Simulations aren’t quite as fun, though.”

“So that’s what you were doing earlier!” she exclaims, delighted.  He is a little surprised and not a little flattered that she noticed.  “I wondered, but you shut it off before I could work it out.”

“My battery died.  Unfortunately.”

“What are you working on?”

He hesitates, not sure if he should share, and she holds one hand up to stop him.  “Never mind, I understand.  It’s classified.”

“Turn and turn about is fair play?” he offers, and she laughs.

“I suppose so.  Which is just the most maddening thing, to do something so interesting-”

“-and not be able to tell anyone?”

“Exactly.  Though even when I _could_ tell people, no one-”

“-understood it.”

“Exactly,” she says again, looking at him with wonderment in her eyes.  He knows, because he feels it too.  Synergy, he thinks, briefly, and shoves it away again.  This is a conversation between two people stuck on the plane trip from Hell; it is not a working together of anything.

As he tries to think of something else to say – anything to keep the conversation going – a new voice comes over the intercom. He thinks it’s one of the frazzled flight attendants, because the easy geniality of the pilot is entirely absent. “Good news: they’ve found the problem. The bad news is that it will take another forty minutes for them to fix, so we’re looking at a departure time of 6:37p.m. and an arrival time of 12:23a.m. local time.  We apologise for any inconvenience…” 

The rest of her speech is drowned out in another chorus of dismayed groans and dinging bells.  Fitz crosses his arms and slumps into his seat unhappily. “Perfect,” he says, staring into the empty rest of his night and early morning.

“Are you going to miss a flight?” she asks.

“No, but my computer is dead and I’ve already finished the book I brought.  It’s going to be a long flight.”

“You only brought one for a six-hour trip?”

“I don’t read that quickly,” he says, watching as she suddenly leans over and heaves an enormous handbag onto her lap. “It should have been plenty. I wasn’t counting on a four-hour delay. It shouldn’t even take them that long to fix, unless the engine has come entirely out of the plane.”

“Fortunately, I excel at preparation.” With a quick glance over her shoulder, she lets down the seat-back tray and begins awkwardly pulling book after book out of the bag: two battered paperbacks, another journal, a hardcover without the dust jacket, a wrinkled _Science_ magazine.  He can’t believe all this was stuffed in there; it must be related to Mary Poppins’s bag. When he says this out-loud, she shrugs.  “I always buy bags that can hold things.  I hate being caught unprepared.  You’re welcome to read any of them; I’ve got my hands full with my journal.”

None of the titles are familiar, so he asks “Which do you recommend?”

She considers a moment, tilting her head to the side and appearing to think deeply.  For some reason, he doesn’t mind her appraisal.  It feels kind, not judgmental, as if she is only looking for the good and liking what she sees.  “This one,” she says finally, handing him the fattest and most beat-up of the paperbacks. “The chapters are short so you can stop easily, and it’s funny.  Plus, he’s Scottish and so are you.” _All Creatures Great and Small_ , he reads on the spine, and thanks her. “You’re welcome. I hope it lasts you.”

She begins to turn back to the journal on her lap and he knows that if he doesn’t say something right now the conversation will be done.  He also knows, if that is the case, that he will regret it for a very long time. There is no time to think of anything clever, so he uncharacteristically blurts out the first thing that comes to mind: “How’d you know I was Scottish?  I’ve been working on getting rid of my accent.”

She takes this exactly as seriously as he meant it and laughs again.  Relieved, he thinks spending six hours making her laugh might not be a waste of time. “Well, you’re doing a brilliant job of it.  How long have you been at it, two weeks?”

“I’ve lived here ten years – came over for university at 16.”

“Me too!” she says, “MIT ’06, and ’08, and ’10. That was the first PhD.”

“No way.”  This is ridiculous, a coincidence beyond belief.  “I did the same, only it took me another year to get my PhD. And at MIT, too. How did we not know each other?”

“Different disciplines, I suppose,” she says, “you know how they keep us apart.  Such a waste, I always think.  Cross-breeding disciplines has the potential to create such exciting things. Just because one is biological and the other only organic-”

“I agree,” he says, “plus it’s not like they don’t bleed into each other anyway.  Did you take advanced trig with Professor Weaver?”

“Oh, trig with Professor Weaver!” She rolls her eyes and shudders, which is about his assessment of the class, and launches into a recollection about the mid-term that he had intentionally forgotten.  As it turns out, they have taken many of the same classes, though at different times, and known quite a few of the same people. From there the conversation turns easily to what they liked about Cambridge, what they like about the UK, their favourite biscuits, favourite television shows and then, naturally, their favourite Doctors. Before they know it the flight attendant is coming by to ask her to put her books away, please, and stow the tray appropriately so they can get underway. 

She does so quickly.  “That wasn’t nearly forty minutes, was it?”

“It was,” he says, consulting his watch, “actually closer to an hour.  They had better have given us a new engine for the amount of time it took.”

Sighing heavily, she opens her journal again. “And now it will be nearly one in the morning by the time we land, so I won’t be home until after two, and jet lag or no, I can’t expect more than three hours of sleep.  Please don’t be offended if you’re trying to talk to me and I don’t respond.  I’ve probably gone to sleep.”

“I won’t,” he promises, catching and tucking away the hinted implication.  Gesturing to the side of the plane, he adds “Would you like to switch?  I’m a bit of a late bird; I won’t need to use it.”

She glances at the indicator lights above, then down at the seatbelt.  “Better not. The ‘fasten seatbelt’ light is on. Anyway, they don’t recommend switching seats – what if there’s an accident?”

“It would have to be a pretty bad one if they couldn’t tell the difference between you and me.”

“Still.”

“Well, just let me know.”

Smiling a response, she takes out her bookmark and begins to read.  Once they take off he does the same, gingerly turning over leaves he is afraid may fall out to stop at every dog-eared page, which he assumes mark her favourite parts. Each one he reads makes him chuckle. Once, he reads one that makes him laugh out loud.

She looks up at that and smiles. “Which bit?”

“The-”  He laughs again, mentally picturing, “-the feces samples sent-”

“Oh, I love that one!”  She laughs with him.  “But my favourite is the one where he tricks Tristan with the prolapsed uterus, on the phone.”

“I haven’t got there yet.”

“It’s hilarious.  You’ll love it.”  Prolapsed uteruses don’t seem very funny, but he doesn’t doubt her. “Oh, while I’ve got your attention, I had a question about fuel weight I hope you can answer.”

“Shoot.”

The question she asks requires a long and technical explanation – well, maybe not _requires_ , but she doesn’t appear bored and he likes the wrinkle in her forehead and the excitement in her eyes as she listens carefully so he takes the long way around.  He doesn’t stop until the flight attendants interrupt to hand off packets of peanuts and take drink orders. They both order tea, and she offers her peanuts to him.

Around hour four the cabin lights are dim and they are discussing the problems inherent in popular science when he begins to notice that her blinks are getting shorter and the spaces between her words longer.  “Are you sure you don’t want to switch?  It will be much more comfortable than sleeping with your head bobbing up and down in the middle there.”

“Oh, no, I’m fi-”  She cannot get the word fully out before a yawn cuts her off, and he raises an eyebrow.  “All right, then, I suppose I’m in no condition to refuse.  Thank you.”

Swapping without bothering the snoring lady on the end is not the smoothest of maneuvers.  Eventually they figure out that if they put the armrest up between them and he slides over, she has enough room to stand up and move over the other way. In practice, of course, this doesn’t work quite the way they planned and she almost falls into his lap when the plane lurches, but eventually she is settled in with her journal under the thin plane blanket and he has her book open to the chapter she recommended. Neither of them remembers to put the armrest back down.  When he notices, she is already fast asleep and he finds he doesn’t care.

He tries to keep his attention on the book because it’s really very funny and he wants to know if Jim gets the girl but instead he finds himself mentally replaying the last several hours. It is slightly unbelievable to him that they even happened.  He can count the recent conversations he’s had with young women on both hands, none of which were about anything as remotely interesting as what he’s discussed with her tonight. And certainly none of those conversations had consisted mainly of half-sentences completed perfectly by the other person, as if the thoughts were carried by static electricity from one to another. It is...easy with her, is the conclusion he comes to.  And he would like, very much, if she did not walk off the plane and out of his life.

Then, of course, having reached this conclusion he gives himself a stern talking to.  It’s been all of seven hours he’s known this woman.  He really can’t go making sweeping judgments and unfounded conclusions like that.

But he still has to work very hard to keep from admiring the sweep of her eyelashes on her cheeks and the small movements of her eyelids as she dreams.  

Somehow, she manages to stay asleep until they are nearly pulling up to the gate, when the cabin lights flicker on and the ambient noise of the airplane gives way to the growing hum of passengers packing up. She stretches like a cat before her eyes flutter open.  “Are we there?”

“Yes,” he says, unable to keep all the softness from his voice, “and we’ve picked up time.  It’s just now 12:30.”

“Marvelous.”  She closes her eyes again. 

He would like to let her sleep, but the announcement to “Prepare the doors” has just been made and he knows they’re going to have to be getting up soon.  “Would you like me to put your book in your bag?  I think we’re about to deplane.”

“Such a silly word, ‘deplane’.” Sighing, she sits up and begins to fold the blanket blearily.  “No, I’ll take it.  They have to go back in a certain way.”

He hands it to her with a quiver of excitement in his stomach and then doesn’t look at her, busying himself with getting his own gear together.  As soon as the indicator lights go off, she tucks her phone in between her shoulder and her cheek, hair falling into her eyes.  He gets up and follows the other woman into the aisle, not intentionally listening but unable to quite keep himself from hearing.  “Skye?  I’m here now. I’m sorry it was so delayed.” A pause.  “Oh, you are?  Thank goodness you never check the flight status.  Mhmm.  I’ll see you soon.”  

He helps two other women get their bags down with a smile and knows, before she tells him, that his seat partner’s suitcase is the one with the flowered luggage tag.  Standing, she shoulders her magic purse and thanks him, moving into the aisle ahead of him.  “It was lovely,” she says as he hands her suitcase over, “the whole thing.  Thank you for making this the best delayed flight I ever had.”

“Me too,” he says, stammering, “it was – you were-”

Just then her phone rings and, apologetically, she answers.  “Hello? No, Skye, it’s Terminal B – what do you mean? No, you can’t just cut through the parking lot – Skye? For pity’s sake-” And then, to his horror, she moves away, with his bag still in the overhead compartment and the people behind him agitating to move.  He hurriedly grabs his suitcase and computer bag and rushes after her, only to be stopped by a call from behind him. 

“Sir!  You forgot this.”

He turns.  A middle-aged woman in a wide-brimmed hat is holding out _All Creatures Great and Small_ , smiling as if glad to reunite a well-loved book and its owner.  He takes it and breaks into a run.  But when he funnels out into the crowds around the gate, she is nowhere to be found, not even though he lingers outside the bathroom, keeps an eye out through the whole terminal, circles the baggage carousel until every suitcase is claimed. The book is here. She is gone.  And since those two facts are true, Fitz will never see her again.

He drags his suitcase out to the airport shuttle bays and leans against a pillar, feeling like a disappointed hero in a noir movie. The light streaming behind him creates a dark shadow of his head on the page as he opens the book and removes the note he had left there for her:

_Thank you for loaning me your book and your company. If I had to be delayed, I count myself lucky I got seated next to you. I hope this isn’t weird or creepy, but I think we could be friends.  If you wanted. Here is my email. Feel free to Google me. – Leo Fitz_

He walks over to the trash can and is about to let it drift in when, suddenly, he sees the shapes of other letters on the back. There, in firm, neat cursive, she has left a note for him.

_Why don’t you borrow this, and then give me a call so we can coordinate you getting it back to me.  Here is my number. I know you said you’re a slow reader, so it would be perfectly acceptable if you wanted to call me before. We never finished our discussion about Eleven’s hair v. Four’s hair._   _–Jemma Simmons_

_P.S. In my book, we already are friends._

He takes a deep breath of the cool air and smiles. He will be glad to see how the story ends.

**Author's Note:**

> "All Creatures Great and Small" is one of my go-to plane books, which is why I had Simmons give it to Fitz. Only later did I realize that it was also an oblique reference to "Young James Herriot", for what it's worth.


End file.
